Summer Rain
by Sozo
Summary: Draco makes an unexpected appearance at Privet Drive over the summer. How will Harry deal with him? *H/D slash*
1. Default Chapter

Harry Potter rested his tired head against his bedroom window at 4 Privet Drive, listening distractedly to the thick drumming of rain beating against the glass; he sighed heavily, watching his breath take hazy form on its smooth, cool surface. Although the clock next to his bed read 6am, one wouldn't know it from looking outside, as an omnipresent veil of gray stretched across the skies of Surrey, casting dark shadows over the little village. It was highly unusual to see such a storm in the middle of summer, and the fact that it had persisted for almost two days now made it all the more peculiar. 

Harry had set his alarm clock to wake him up that morning, in hopes that for once, his awakening would be prompted by something other than the echoing screams of his nightmares, or the searing burn of his scar; but as usual, each had provided him with a sufficient wake-up call. Everyday since returning to Privet Drive he had had nightmares. Sometimes they were mild, jolting him from his sleep for only a few moments; but other times, they were fierce and vivid, to the point where he was afraid to close his eyes again. 

Tonight, Harry dreamt that he was at Cedric's funeral, watching his mahogany casket being lowered into the ground. All around him he heard the sobs of Cedric's friends and family, and as he looked around, Harry suddenly noticed they were all glaring at him, their eyes glinting maliciously behind their tears. A face particularly clear among the crowd was Cho Chang, who stood stoically in the background, looking down upon Cedric's coffin. Suddenly, Harry felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and he looked up into Amos Diggory's tortured face.

"It should have been you, boy," Cedric's father snarled angrily. "You! Not Ced!"

Harry stumbled back, releasing himself from Mr. Diggory's tight grip, and turned to run; but he couldn't, because Cho stood right in front of him, her face stricken with sadness.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed, her voice echoing in his head. "How _could_ you?"

He turned again, only to now find himself surrounded by Cedric's circle of loved ones, all chanting the same word: "Murderer."

At this, Harry jerked awake, and ever since he was unable to get back to sleep. He was getting used to these nightmares, one after the other, each one more vivid than the last. He had quickly come to realize he couldn't do anything about them, so instead he would just sit by his window and wait for his nerves to calm, or do a round of push-ups or sit-ups to burn off some tension. He figured he might as well put his insomnia to good use.

He got up and walked over to his desk, on top of which laid a very small stack of birthday cards, delivered just last evening. He was fifteen now, no longer the boy he once was, having grown an inch in the month since coming back to the muggle world. Thanks to puberty and those late-night rounds of exercise, his body was no longer scrawny, but slender and lean, with the first indication of muscle starting to fill in his broadening frame. 

Harry grinned as he picked the cards off his desk and returned to the window. To pass the time, he read each one again, savoring the feeling of contentment that swelled in his chest as his eyes scanned the paper. The first card at the top of the stack was from Hermione, which had the number 15 emblazoned in emerald green across the cover. He opened the card.

__

Dear Harry,

Happy Birthday! I hope you received this card on time, as I'm currently on holiday in Switzerland with my parents and had a difficult time finding a Wizarding post office within the near vicinity. The countryside is absolutely stunning here, so much so that it's becoming extremely difficult to concentrate on my summer studies, if you can believe that?

So how are you doing? Is everything…okay? I hope you like your present. It's nothing extravagant or anything, but merely a simple reminder of how much we love and care about you, Harry. Never forget that. I'm looking forward to seeing you when we all meet up at Ron's house later this summer. Until then, Happy 15th.

All my love,

Hermione

Harry glanced down at Hermione's present and smiled. Inside the card was a Wizard photograph of Ron, Himself, and Hermione, taken by Colin Creevey during their second year. He watched himself and his friends moving in the picture, hugging, making faces at the camera, and putting bunny-ears behind each other's head. Harry felt a strong wave of nostalgia hit him, remembering that day, which felt like a lifetime ago. He placed Hermione's card aside, and was now staring at Ron's, which had a moving photo of several snitches flying across a clear blue sky on the cover. The photo looked eerily similar to the one he'd seen on Uncle Vernon's computer, the one with the flying toasters. Harry flipped the card open.

__

Dear Harry,

Happy 15th, mate! Yeah, I know, where did the time go? Anyway, if you're reading this I'm assuming Errol made it safely to the muggles' house. We almost decided to use a ministry owl instead, since Mum wasn't sure whether Errol could handle such a hefty delivery, what with him being ancient and all. But he seemed awfully stubborn and determined to take on the job, so we eventually gave in.

So, do you like your present? It's a dragon's tooth; it's supposed to protect you from evil spirits, or so Charlie told me when we visited him in Romania. Percy said it was nothing but rubbish – but, I don't know, what's the harm in a little superstition, eh? You never know, right? It might come in handy someday.

How's everything going with the muggles? I hope they aren't bringing you down, but if they are, maybe this bit of news will cheer you up: Mum spoke to Dumbledore and he's agreed to let you stay over at the Burrow later this summer, in about 2 weeks time. Hermione will be here too. It's been a pretty boring summer without you guys. We've already arranged for the Knight Bus to pick you up; so, set your calendar, mate.

Ron

__

P.S. Enclosed is mum's usual assortment of baked goodies. Enjoy!

Harry smiled at the half-eaten mince meat pies and birthday cake on his desk. Mrs. Weasley had truly outdone herself this year. He then glanced at the calendar near his bed, the days of July all marked with red X's. This bit of news cheered him up considerably, and it couldn't have come at a better time. Summer with the Dursleys was beginning to take its toll. As usual, they completely ignored him when he returned to Privet Drive after his fourth year – but Harry didn't expect any different from them. It just reaffirmed how much they were _not_ his family, for a true family would have noticed the lethargic demeanor in his step, the bags under his eyes -- not to mention the sadness within them. Harry reckoned if it hadn't been for the occasional owl from Hermione or Ron, he would have gone insane by now.

A sudden roar of thunder resonated across the sky. The storm had gotten considerably worse since he went to bed a couple of hours ago. Luckily he sent Errol home when he did, when there was only a light drizzle coming down. He also sent Hedwig to deliver a letter to Sirius, and he hoped she had managed to get far before the weather had taken a turn for the worse.

Harry swallowed thickly, feeling a dry, scratchy sensation in his throat, suddenly realizing how thirsty has was. He decided it was no use trying to get back to sleep and, placing his cards back on his desk, made his way downstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He withdrew a plastic cup from the cabinet, and filled it up beneath the faucet. As he drank his tap water, he thought about Hogwarts' famous pumpkin juice, and how much he missed it. It was just another reminder of where his home was. After his thirst was quenched, Harry looked through the fridge for a snack. Sneaking food at night had become a necessity for Harry over the years; he simply couldn't survive on mince pies and cake alone. The funny thing though was that Aunt Petunia never said anything about it, and Harry knew she must have noticed some food missing when she opened up the fridge the next morning. Whatever the reason, Harry liked to think it was because, deep down, she still had an inkling of kindness left in her. It was a healthy illusion he willingly submitted to, just to keep his sanity intact if nothing else.

Gazing at all the various foods in the fridge, Harry noticed he really wasn't that hungry. He was just about to close the door when a loud BANG sounded from outside, followed by a flash of light, startling him.

"What the devil?" he breathed, turning toward the window to see what it was.

However, he saw nothing but the thrashing of rain against it, and he shrugged. Probably just some lightening, he thought to himself. He closed the refrigerator door, and proceeded into the entryway. As he walked toward the stairs, he heard a mild thud on the front door. He stopped, not entirely sure whether he truly heard it or not. He waited a moment and listened, but there was only silence. He furrowed his brow slightly and started to walk again, but as soon as he stepped forward, he heard it again, only this time there was no mistaking it. Then all at once, the thud quickly escalated to a loud, frantic pounding. Someone was pounding on the door! But who would be pounding on the Dursley's door at this early hour, in this kind of weather, no doubt?

Harry quickly made his way over to the door and looked through the peep hole, but it was too dark and wet to see anything clearly.

"Who's there?" Harry called from behind the door.

But no one answered, only the pounding continued. At this rate, the whole neighborhood would be awake within minutes. Harry sucked in a quick breath and, throwing caution to the wind, unlocked the front door and opened it. And before him stood... 

"_Malfoy_?"

"Potter, thank god," Draco panted, anxiously looking around as if someone were following him. "Quick, let me in."

"W-What?" Harry stammered, completely incredulous at the sight of Malfoy on the doorstep of Privet Drive. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Will you just let me in?" Draco spat impatiently, rain slapping against his sodden robes. "It's bloody pouring outside!"

But Harry didn't move, partly out of astonishment, but mostly because this was, after all, Draco Malfoy he was speaking to. "How did you get all the way out here in Little Whinging?" he inquired, his mind still spinning with confusion. "Come to think of it," he added, "how do you even know where I stay during the summer holidays?"

Draco fervently looked around himself again. "Look, I'll explain later when I don't have liters of water seeping into my shoes," he replied, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice. "Now stop being a git and let me in."

Harry blinked, and then let out a short, dry laugh as he folded his arms in front of his chest. "You're joking, right? I suggest you explain yourself now, Malfoy, because you're just seconds away from having a door slammed in your face."

"God, you're _such_ a wanker, Potter!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't have time for this," he said, starting to close the door. "See you at King's Cross in September, if you manage not to die of hypothermia by then."

"Wait, wait," Draco said hastily, pushing against the door. For fleeting moment, Harry thought he saw a pleading look flash across Draco's face, but it was instantly replaced by his usual complacent expression. "Alight, alright."

Harry raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Draco took a deep breath and sighed. "I ran away from home, okay?"

Harry blinked, still very much confused. "Why?" was all he could think of to say.

"That's none of you're business, Potter," Draco said smugly.

"That still doesn't explain why you're here – in a _muggle_ neighborhood," Harry pointed out. He narrowed his eyes on Draco and shook his head. "Nice try, Malfoy, but I'm not in the mood for another one of your pranks, so you can go back to wherever it is you came from and tell your Slytherin mates it didn't work."

He started to shut the door again when Draco placed his hand firmly on it. "Listen, this isn't a prank, you prat," insisted Draco. "I have no place else to g-g-AHH-CHOO!"

Harry flinched, his forehead catching some of the spray from Draco's sneeze. "What do you mean," he wiped his forehead irritably, "you have no place else to go?"

Draco sniffed. "Again, can I explain when I don't look as if I've been swimming with the giant squid all afternoon?"

Harry hesitated. What was Malfoy up to? Why was he here? Aside from pranks, Harry also hadn't neglected to consider the more serious possibility that this was merely an attempt by Lucius Malfoy, Draco's Death Eater father, to somehow lure him away from the veil of protection Dumbledore had put into place. Although Harry despised the Dursleys, he knew he was protected here by some form of magic.

"What is going on down there?" Harry suddenly heard Uncle Vernon grumble from upstairs, his voice groggy with slumber.

"Nothing," Harry called back. "Just getting a glass of water."

"Well, knock off all the noise, boy, before I come down and box your ears," Uncle Vernon bellowed.

He turned back to Draco. "Okay," Harry whispered reluctantly. "I'll let you inside until the rain stops, but if you try anything – and I mean anything – at all, I won't hesitate to use magic, even if it means risking expulsion."

Draco gracefully rolled his eyes and mumbled a sound of affirmation.

Harry slowly moved aside and Draco stepped in; and as he did so, Harry could practically hear Ron's protesting voice echoing loudly in the back of his head. "You let Malfoy into the muggles' house? Are you completely mad?!?" Harry was beginning to ask himself that same question; he knew he was playing with fire here, but his curiosity was now piqued, and he wanted some answers.

"It's about time," Draco sighed emphatically, wiping his dripping blond locks, which were plastered to his forehead, out of his eyes.

"Shh, keep your voice down," Harry hissed, shutting the front door. "I can't believe I'm even doing this. Remember, Malfoy, one misstep, and you can drown outside for all I care."

"Don't get your knickers in such a twist, Potter," Draco said casually, though he did lower his voice a bit.

Harry groaned, as he finally took a good look at Malfoy, who was utterly drenched from head to toe. "Look at you; you're dripping water all over the place."

Draco shot him a look as if to say, "Duh!"

"C'mon, I have to get you upstairs before anyone wakes up and sees you," said Harry, thinking of the aneurysm Aunt Petunia would have at the sight of dirty water all over her clean floor, let alone finding a strange boy inside her house. He cocked his head at the stairs. "Follow me."

Both boys slowly trudged up the stairs, Harry in front, trying to remain as quiet as possible, which turned out to be considerably difficult because of Draco's waterlogged attire. They reached the top of the stairs, and the resounding snores coming from down the hall told Harry his relatives were still asleep. Judging from the time on his watch, he estimated the Dursley's would be asleep for at least another hour.

"What a pitiful looking residence you've got here, Potter," said Draco in a superior tone, as he surveyed the plain hallway, with its beige carpeting and dull walls. "But then again, I suppose when compared to Weasley's lopsided shack, this must feel like Buckingham Palace."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry whispered warningly. "You're more than welcome to go back outside in the rain if this 'pitiful residence' isn't to your liking."

Draco scowled slightly but didn't say anything.

"Over here." He motioned Draco to follow. As he treaded quietly to his room, Harry grabbed a clean towel from the hallway cabinet, which was meticulously folded and arranged with the others according to color and size. "You can dry off with this," he whispered, his back to Draco. "Okay, Malfoy? Malfoy?"

Harry spun around, and saw that Draco had made his way down the opposite end of the hall, and was now peeking into Dudley's bedroom.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed angrily as he approached Draco with two quick strides. "I thought I told you to follow me."

"Who's that oafish git?" asked Draco, ignoring Harry and nodding at Dudley's massive sleeping body.

"My cousin," he replied shortly, gently closing Dudley's door so as not to wake him.

Draco snorted. "You're related to that whale?"

"Unfortunately."

He gave Harry a peculiar look. "What, no retort? Aren't you going to defend him like you always do for Weasel and Mudblood?"

"Malfoy," Harry sighed, the insults to his friends fueling his irritation and anger. "Either you shut up and follow me, or sod off."

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "Okay, okay."

Harry turned and walked into his room, shutting the door quickly once Draco was inside.

"Here." He threw the towel at Malfoy.

"So this is famous Harry Potter's bedroom," Draco's muffled voice came from under the towel as he dried his hair. He lifted it from his head and looked around the room. "Not too impressive for the boy who lived, if you ask me."

"Enough of this, Malfoy," Harry cut in sharply. "I want to know why you're here – now."

Draco looked down at his robes. "Can I get some dry clothes, first?"

"No!" Harry snapped, his irritation having reached its peak. "Out with it, Malfoy!"

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but whatever it was he was about to say was cut off by a shrill cry from down the hall, one that could've only belonged to Aunt Petunia. She must've just woken up and seen the cascade of water from the upstairs banister.

"Dammit." Harry hurriedly grabbed Draco by his arm. "Quick! In here," he said, opening his closet door and shoving Draco inside.

"Hey! What's the big—" He promptly shut the door in Draco's face, silencing him.

"Don't make a sound or you'll be back outside before you can say 'umbrella'," Harry whispered against the door.

He could hear Aunt Petunia's frantic steps from across the hallway, rapidly approaching his room. He braced himself just as his door swung open, revealing his fuming Aunt, who was still in her nightgown and curlers.

"What is the meaning of this?" she shrieked, pointing in the direction of stairs. "What have you done to my clean floor?"

"Er…," Harry quickly searched his mind for a credible explanation. "I spilt some water?" he offered lamely. A quiet chortle escaped from the closet.

Aunt Petunia's face contorted in annoyance. "Obviously!" she spat. "What were you bloody doing downstairs? Leaving the front door open so the whole storm could get inside?"

Suddenly, her eyes grew very wide, and then she narrowed them on Harry with such cold calculation that they became nothing more than two fine points. "This better not be another one of your…tricks!" She said the last word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

"You know I can't do any 'tricks' outside of school," Harry reminded her calmly, trying to keep his face devoid of any deception. "I just spilt some water when I went downstairs to get a drink." He swallowed hard and grudgingly added with forced remorse, "I'm sorry."

"Right you are, sorry," Petunia rebuked, not buying Harry's feigned apologize. "Now get downstairs and clean it up before your Uncle and Dudley wake up. I want to see my reflection in that floor again!"

Harry mentally suppressed the impulse to tell his Aunt off. After what he went through last term, having faced the Dark Lord himself, the Dursleys were nothing more than an inconvenience now, and Harry often chuckled to himself when remembering how intimidated he used to be around them; however, given the current circumstances, he didn't want to complicate matters. He already had enough to worry about with Malfoy in the house.

"Fine," he said simply, casually walking past his Aunt and leaving her somewhat flabbergasted at his willing compliance in his wake.

As Harry walked downstairs, he let out a small sigh of relief when he heard Aunt Petunia shut his bedroom door and follow him down the stairs.

"The mop is in your old room," she said tersely.

Harry knew that – hell, that's where they had always kept it, even when he was still living in the cupboard. His relatives just enjoyed making these snide comments, as if to remind him that he was nothing more than some moldy fungus that had sprouted from under a rock. But Harry's mind was elsewhere as he took the mop from the cupboard and proceeded to clean the entryway.

As he mopped, several probing questions dashed through Harry's head. Why is Malfoy here? How did he get here? And how does he know where I stay during the summer? The only logical explanation that he kept coming back to was that this was merely another attempt by Voldemort to get to him, this time by using Draco as the device. In that case, he could be in great danger even at this very moment. Maybe Voldemort was on his way right now.

Harry quickened his pace, the mere thought of his arch nemesis roaming freely and unattended in his room making him cringe with discomfort. _He's probably searching every square inch at this every moment_, Harry thought to himself, _rummaging through my desk or looking for my Hogwarts trunk_. Suddenly, Harry froze, remembering the loose floorboard under his bed, which held the majority of his most cherished magical possessions, his wand and invisibility cloak being just some of them.

Becoming highly restless now, Harry surveyed his work hastily; looking satisfactory, he tossed the mop back into the cupboard without a second thought and made a dash for the stairs. "Done!" he declared loudly to his Aunt who was in the kitchen making breakfast. He didn't wait for a response as he climbed the stairs two at a time, rushing to get back to his room.

Harry practically tripped over himself as he opened his door. Once inside, he found Draco not in the closet, but on the opposite side of the room, shifting through his dresser. "What – are – you – doing?" Harry huffed angrily, trying to catch his breath.

"Tighty-whities, Potter?" Draco chuckled amusingly, holding up a pair of Harry's briefs by his fingertips. "I prefer boxers myself."

"Give me that!" Harry walked briskly over to Draco and snatched his underwear back, his face going hot with anger and embarrassment. He shoved Draco away from his dresser and threw his underwear back inside. "You were supposed to stay where you were; suppose if someone came in and saw you." 

"I was only looking for some dry clothes," Draco scoffed indignantly. "My skin is turning purple from being in these wet robes for so long."

Harry sighed impatiently. "Here," he said, opening his dresser and grabbing the nearest sweat shirt and pants he could see and throwing them at Draco. "You can put those on."

Draco shot him a dubious look. "Uh, Potter?" He unfolded the sweat shirt and held it out in front of him; it was easily ten sizes too big. "I said clothes, not bed sheets."

"Tough, Malfoy, but that's all you're getting."

Harry wasn't about to let Malfoy wear any of the clothes that actually fit him – no, Dudley's hand-me-downs would do just fine for his archrival.

Draco sighed and grunted in annoyance. "Well, then where's the bathroom," he asked. "I need someplace to change."

"Oh no." Harry shook his head. "I'm not letting you out of this room. I may not know what you're playing at yet, Malfoy, but don't think for a second I'm going to let you out of my sight. You can change right here."

"No!" Draco snapped abruptly, and again Harry saw the same pleading look flicker across his features, before it instantly disappeared once again. "I'm flattered Potter, really I am," Draco drawled sarcastically, immediately recovering with his patented smirk in place, "but you're not my type."

Maybe he just imagined it, Harry thought to himself, but that was the second time he saw that pleading look in Draco's eyes. Besides, since when did Malfoy have qualms about changing in front of people? For goodness sakes, he's was a Quidditch player; he dressed out all the time for practices and matches. Something was obviously not right here.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly. "Fine, you can change in there," he said warily, pointing absently to the closet.

Draco seized the opportunity at once and, ignoring the look Harry was giving him, sauntered back into the closet to change. In the meantime, Harry made his way over to his bed and sat down, trying to figure out what to do. He immediately thought of Dumbledore – yes, Dumbledore would know what to make of this, Harry thought to himself. But how could he contact him? He had already sent Hedwig out last night to deliver a letter to Sirius. It normally took her about a week or so to return whenever he sent her to him, and that was in relatively clear weather. There was no telling how long her journey would take in this raging storm. Without Hedwig, he was pretty much cut off from the Wizarding World; he couldn't even contact Ron or Hermione. A wave of dread suddenly came over Harry at the realization that he might be stuck with Malfoy until Hedwig's return. But a week with Malfoy would not only be unbearable torture, but also dangerous.

While Draco changed, Harry took the opportunity to hide whatever items of value he had left lying around his room inside the loose floorboard beneath his bed. He wasn't taking any chances where Draco's integrity was concerned. He got off his bed and looked out his window, hoping the storm would've eased up a bit, but the dark sky above and the thick watery veil rushing down his window told him he was out of luck.

Just then, the closet door clicked opened, and Draco emerged with an appalled look on his face. Despite himself, Harry couldn't help choking down a laugh at the sight of Malfoy in Dudley's old clothes. The stretched collar hung loosely around Draco's neck, exposing a good portion of his bare collarbone, while the wide sleeves and pant legs spilled profusely over his hands and feet, completely concealing them. It was almost like looking into the past, as Harry remembered having to wear those exact same clothes during all those countless winters inside his cupboard under the stairs.

Draco glared at Harry, who was finding it increasingly difficult not to laugh out loud right then and there. If only Ron were here to see this.

"One word, Potter," he drawled in a threatening tone.

Harry held up his hands innocently. "I didn't say anything."

"Is this what those filthy muggles normally wear?" asked Draco, disgust evident on his face as he lifted his arms horizontally, the dangling flaps of excess fabric looking almost like a pair of wings.

"Stop stalling, Malfoy," Harry said seriously, the cheeky remark from Draco having snapped him back to the issue at hand. "You're all dry now, so spill it: What are you doing here?"

"I already told you; I ran away from home."

Harry shrugged. "Big deal. What does that have to do with me? Why didn't you just ask one of your oversized goons for help? I'm sure Crabbe or Goyle would've been delighted to take in your sorry arse."

"I couldn't stay with them, you moron."

"Why not?"

"Because," Draco explained in an exasperated tone, "I needed a place where I knew they wouldn't look for me."

"What's that suppose to mean? Who's 'they'?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Let's just say things are a bit…complicated right now at Malfoy manor, okay Potter? All I'm asking for is a place to crash for a few days until things calm down, and until I can figure out what to do."

Harry's head was beginning to hurt. He was getting nowhere with this; every question he asked only led to more unanswered questions.

"You don't get it, do you, Malfoy? You're father is a Death Eater," said Harry, enunciating the last three words for emphasis. "This isn't like some bloody sleepover. I despise you, your father, and everything you both stand for. Why in Merlin's name should I risk my well-being for _you_?"

The defensive retorts Harry expected in return never came, although he could see Draco gritting his teeth in a struggle to maintain his composure. Finally, he said in an even voice, "Believe me, the feeling is quite mutual, and if there was any other person I could go to, I would; but unfortunately, you're all I've got."

"You're making this all sound as if it's a matter of life and death," Harry said uncertainly.

Draco chuckled lightly. "If only it were that simple, Potter." He let out a weary sigh. "Look, you needn't be worried about your 'well-being' – this is strictly a personal matter, I assure you. Besides, I'm wandless anyway."

"Why should I believe one word of what you're saying?"

"You shouldn't," Draco idly admitted, taking Harry a bit by surprise. "I know I wouldn't if I was you." He paused for a moment, and then looked Harry right in eye. "But I guess that's why I'm not you."

Draco's words hung in the air for a moment, as both boys simply stared at each other. After about a minute, Harry awkwardly looked away.

"How did you get here, anyway?" he said in a change-of-subject sort of voice.

"The Knight Bus," Draco answered. "I didn't want to come here by broom – too much of a risk at being seen by muggles in this area."

"As if the Knight Bus is anymore discreet," Harry countered, the loud BANG and flash of light making sense now. "You're a member of one of the richest wizarding families in Great Britain; someone on that bus was bound to recognize who you were. No doubt they're with the ministry right now, giving them an eyewitness account."

"Relax, Potter." Draco waved his hand casually. He walked over to his wet robes, reached into a pocket, and withdrew a small vial. "Trust me," he said, gingerly tossing it to Harry. "No one recognized me."

Harry uncorked the empty vial, and the potent stench of overcooked cabbage immediately engulfed his senses, making him wrinkle his nose in disgust. "Polyjuice potion?"

Draco smirked. "Don't look so surprised," he said smugly. "I didn't get top marks in potions simply because I'm a Slytherin, as you and all those other whiny Gryffindors so adamantly purport."

Harry was about to ask Draco how he got the ingredients for the potion, remembering how tough some of them were to get when he, Ron, and Hermione had made it back in their second year, but ultimately figured Lucious Malfoy, given his affiliations, probably had a vast collection of potion ingredients, no doubt far more rare and dangerous than the ones needed for Polyjuice potion.

"That still doesn't explain how you know where I stay during the summer holidays."

"Blimey, you really are a dense git, aren't you?" said Draco, letting out a mirthless laugh. "_Everyone_ knows where you stay during the summer holidays. It's in nearly every book ever written on you or the Dark Lord." He shook his head disparagingly, resentful of the fact that such fame was being wasted on someone who didn't even realize it. "Haven't you ever read _Modern Magical History_ or _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_?"

Harry shook his head blankly, though both titles did sound awfully familiar.

"Open your eyes, Potter. 4 Privet Drive is one of the biggest Wizarding-tourist attractions in the entire UK. It's practically a bloody landmark! It didn't exactly require pulling teeth to find out where you live. Witches and Wizards from all over the world come to visit this place every year. Hell, the Knight Bus even offers special discount tours on Boxing Day."

"But how's that possible?" Harry asked, completely dumbstruck. "I've never seen any magical people near here before."

"Are you sure about that?"

Harry thought back, and before he even tried to piece together a possible explanation, it all suddenly clicked. He started to remember all those peculiar encounters he had had as a child, when complete strangers would stop him in the street to bow or shake his hand. He even remembered this one time, when an old woman in green had waved to him – on a _bus_!

Harry shut his eyes, mentally trying to absorb all these various revelations. Could it be? To think, the house where he had spent his early youth, with its neat hedges and tidy gardens…the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen, had been a Mecca for the wizarding world for the past fifteen years.

"I know – sickening, isn't it?" Draco remarked, taking note of Harry's shocked, yet at the same time horrified expression. "The prices they charge on those tours is _scandalous_."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said curtly. "This isn't funny." He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head dejectedly. "All this time Privet Drive has been a tourist attraction?"

Even repeating it out loud didn't help Harry grasp this newly acquired information any better. Why hadn't anyone ever told him this before? Surely Hermione and Ron must have known? Now that he thought about it, in all the years he knew Ron and Hermione, he didn't recall ever giving either of them the Dursley's _complete_ address – and yet, Ron never had any trouble ever finding him, the incident three years ago with the Ford Anglia immediately coming to mind. Suddenly, Harry remembered where he had heard of those two book titles; he had heard of them from…Hermione, when he first met her on the Hogwarts Express nearly five years ago. He even recalled the exact conversation:

__

"Harry Potter."

"Are you really? I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History_ and_ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and_ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_."_

Harry slowly made his way over to his desk chair and sat down. It was simply too much to take in all at once.

"It's no big deal, Potter," Draco shrugged indifferently.

"Of course it's a big deal," Harry insisted, his incredulity slowly giving way to anger. "This whole time I thought Privet Drive was completely secluded and clandestine from the wizarding world, when in fact it's been open and accessible to the public all along. If its whereabouts are so common knowledge, then how come Voldemort hasn't been able to walk right up to the front door and get a hold of me?"

"Oh, c'mon – even you must know you're protected here?"

"I don't know what I know anymore."

"Well, Dumbledore may be a muggle-lover, but he's no idiot, that's for sure," assessed Draco. "He obviously has set up some powerful magic to keep danger away from here. Why do you think I came here to begin with?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, taking the opportunity to put the focus back on Draco. "Good question, Malfoy. Exactly why _did_ you come here?"

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "I thought we already went over this."

"You conveniently neglected to mention who you're running from, or why you're running at all."

"And I already told – it's personal."

"Okay, then suppose things at your house never 'calm down'," said Harry, using air quotations for the last two words. "What then? Are you going to stay here the entire summer – because you can just forget it. I put up with you enough at school, not to mention there's no way I'd be able to hide you from the Dursleys for that long, especially without magic."

"Just let me worry about that," Draco drawled in an uninterested voice. He held up a finger. "One week, tops. That's all I'm asking."

Harry paused to think. Although practically every fiber of his being was telling him this was a bad idea, he still couldn't help considering the possibility of letting Draco stay. Sure, he was extremely smug and annoying, not to mention wildly dishonest, but he was still the son of Voldemort's most trusted servant, and there was no doubt in Harry's mind that Draco must have acquired some useful information over the years, but whether directly or indirectly, Harry couldn't say. But regardless, it was information that could prove helpful against the Dark side, if only Harry could coerce it out of Draco. Then, assuming he was telling the truth, there was the whole unanswered question of exactly why Draco ran away in the first place. He wasn't too concerned for his safety. If Draco had intended to do him harm, he could have easily done so by now, and he trusted the protection Dumbledore had instilled here. But Harry was also quick to remind himself that despite all the protection in place, Voldemort still managed to get to him twice – though never at Privet Drive, and that maybe this was his next attempt. But the idea of actually taking some initiative to inform himself, rather than just sitting around waiting for others to, was far too appealing to pass up. He had made up his mind; he had to take that chance.

"Okay, you can stay," said Harry flatly. "But only on a couple conditions."

"Which are?"

"One: no magic."

Draco chuckled lightly. "Contrary to what you might think of me, Potter, I'm in no hurry to get expelled anymore than you are. Besides, I already told you I don't have my wand with me."

"Two: you do not step foot out of this room without me knowing. If I'm going to keep you hidden from the Dursleys for a week, I can't have you poking your head out the door whenever you feel like it."

"But—"

"Three," Harry continued. "You do not _touch_ anything in this room, unless I say you can, or if the item in question belongs to you. In other words, don't touch _anything_!"

"Uh—"

"Four: you stay only a week. After that, you're on your own."

"Yeah, b—"

"No buts, Malfoy," Harry interrupted. "You're no longer in the wizarding world, and believe me, you chose the worst kind of muggles to serve as your first glimpse into the muggle world. So you either agree to these terms, or don't let the door hit you on the way out."

Draco put his hands to his hips. "But what if I have to use the bathroom?"

Harry stopped. He hadn't really thought about that, or come to think of it, how he was going to sneak food up to Draco. As much as he despised him, he couldn't let him starve, and he certainly wasn't about to let him wet himself all over his room. Harry cleared his throat nervously. "All questions will be answered on a need to know basis."

Draco looked incredulous.

"So, do we have a deal?" Harry asked, holding out his hand.

Draco scowled slightly, but shook it. "Deal."

"Alright then," said Harry. He glanced down at his watch: 8am. "I need to go downstairs for breakfast, otherwise they might suspect something." He knew the Dursleys wouldn't even notice if he was there or not, but nevertheless, he didn't want anything to seem out of the ordinary. "Remember, don't touch anything or go anywhere outside the confines of this room. I'll try to bring back what I can."

Harry walked over to his door.

"Tell the chef I'd like some Belgian waffles with a pinch of marmalade and jam – oh, and some freshly squeezed orange juice," Draco ordered from behind him.

Harry sighed as he opened the door. This was going to be one long week.


	2. Chapter 02

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter characters, places or situations.  Those all belong to J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers.**

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the long delay in getting Chapter 2 posted.  Real life pretty much took over -- with a vengeance.  Thanks to everyone for being especially patient, and if all goes well, hopefully the next chapter won't take nearly as long to finish.  Again, I'd like to thank my awesome beta, Kenaz Astraroth, for taking the time out of her life to help with Summer Rain.  Thanks so much for that, Kenaz!  And also a big thanks to Gale, Kimagure, Penultimate Pentippelpus, Arwena, Chi, and Mr. Foxkins here at Fanfiction.net for reviewing Chapter 1.  I sincerely appreciate your feedback.

**Side note:  Some have asked if this story is slash, and the answer is – yes!  Although it hasn't become apparent yet, the story will eventually contain such themes – so if, for whatever reason, slash doesn't appeal to you, then I suggest you don't read further.  I just wanted to clarify that point.  Okay, enjoy Chapter 2, and as always, reviews and feedback are highly welcomed.**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  


By the time Harry went down for breakfast, the Dursleys had already situated themselves inside the kitchen.  Aunt Petunia was at the stove, no doubt cooking Dudley his fourth helping of eggs, while Uncle Vernon sat at the table already dressed in his usual Grunnings suit, grouchily reading his paper.  Harry walked over and sat down like he always did, and like always, the Dursleys ignored his presence.  He glanced over at his Uncle and cousin, suddenly realizing he hadn't heard either one of them come down from bed that morning.  He'd been so preoccupied with Malfoy that apparently everything else had fallen on deft ears.  He wasn't even sure if he had remembered to keep his voice down half the time.  Had they heard him and Draco talking?

Harry pushed the thought aside as he quietly helped himself to what was left of breakfast: just some toast and a sausage.  Evidently, in his case, breakfast at the Dursley's was based strictly on a first come, first serve policy.  At any rate, he wasn't that hungry, so he just nibbled some toast in silence while occasionally casting his eyes to the ceiling, wondering what Draco was doing up there in his room right now.

Eventually, his attention was drawn to Dudley's television, whose program had just been interrupted by a special weather report bulletin.

"This is Wayland Harris of the BBC weather channel, interrupting your currently scheduled program for this special weather report," said the lanky reporter.  "The southern coast is still being plagued by the remnants of deep depressions left behind by hurricane Ingrid, now slowly heading west over the Atlantic.  Forecasts continue to call for highs winds and heavy rain over the next couple of days in and around the southwestern regions, including Plymouth, Southampton, and Surrey.  Experts advise citizens of those specified areas to use caution when traveling, and to keep flashlights, bottled water, and a first aid kit on hand in case of a power outage."

"Oh dear, I hope it's nothing serious," Aunt Petunia said apprehensively, pouring another helping of eggs and sausage onto Dudley's plate.  "Maybe you should call in sick today," she suggested to her husband.

"Nonsense, Petunia!" Uncle Vernon loudly dismissed, his mustache bristling.  "This is nothing compared to the gale we had back in '87.  Now that was a storm!  Besides, you know I'm on the verge of closing a big deal this week.  This time we might actually get that vacation home in Majorca."  He shot Harry a nasty look, no doubt as a reminder of the incident with the Masons three years ago.  "I see you're finally up," he barked at Harry, at last acknowledging his presence.  "Sleep well, did you?  It's a shame we all couldn't have, no thanks to a certain _someone who can't even get a glass of water without making a bleeding ruckus."_

"Or a mess," Aunt Petunia added snippily.

"He wasn't sleeping," Dudley suddenly mumbled through the chunks of egg and sausage in his mouth.  "I heard him talking—"

"In my sleep," Harry interjected quickly, fixing his bloated cousin with an admonishing glare.  So – apparently someone _had heard him.  "I must've been talking in my sleep."_

"Were you, now?" Uncle Vernon said with a wary sneer.  "Then I suppose you were sleepwalking too, because only someone half asleep would be daft enough to spill that much water all over the floor!"

"It's a possibility." Harry shrugged naively, trying to appear natural.

"And a smashing job you did cleaning it up as well," his Aunt chimed in, her voice dripping with sarcasm.  "Lucky for you I didn't slip and break my neck."

_Yeah – lucky me, Harry thought to himself.  He had expected this; as usual, whenever his relatives took the time to actually acknowledge his existence, the lectures and criticisms would soon ensue – and sure enough…_

"Now you listen here, boy," Uncle Vernon snarled threateningly, pointing his fat finger at Harry.  "Every bloody summer it's been something or another.  First, it was that ruddy tail; then it was the window; then Marge; and then the fireplace – well, no more!"  He banged his purple fist on the table, making the plastic plates atop it rattle.  "I'm keeping my eye on you, and if I see anymore nonsense this summer, mark my words you'll be out on your backside for good.  There'll be no coming back this time!  Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Harry answered robotically, having been through this same conversation about a million times since coming back to Privet Drive.  From the moment he retuned from Hogwarts, his relatives had been on constant edge – more so than ever before – no doubt in fearful anticipation of _this year's summer disaster, which had practically become a staple occurrence in the Dursley household over the past four years.  Thus, these days, whenever Harry happened to draw even the slightest bit of attention to himself – like coughing, for example – Uncle Vernon would launch into one of his patented diatribes.  It had been awhile since the last one; so Harry, out of sheer routine, was actually beginning to wonder when the next one was due._

He was hardly surprised it had come today, especially after what happened earlier this morning.  It had been the first time this summer that anything "out of the ordinary" had occurred, so naturally he expected nothing less than a full-on chastisement.  Not that Uncle Vernon's threats ever mattered, really; but this summer, in particular, they seemed especially trivial to Harry, given what he had been through.  Threats of banishment no longer concerned or troubled him, for he would have gladly left forever if only Dumbledore had agreed to it.  Every summer he dreaded coming back to this place – a place that, after last term, now seemed so small, so limited, so…ordinary.  It was as if he was finally seeing Privet Drive for what it truly was now: a place that no longer held any significance in his life – only bad memories.  Having realized this, Harry honestly wasn't sure if he could tolerate coming back again next summer, even if Dumbledore asked him to.

Uncle Vernon gave Harry one last glare and grunt before returning to his paper; Aunt Petunia started washing the dishes, while Dudley returned to his television program – and just like that, they all reverted back to ignoring him again.  Harry looked around once more, and when he was confident no one was looking, he wrapped a piece of toast and sausage in his napkin and discreetly slipped it into his pajama bottom pocket.  _So much for Belgian waffles, Harry thought._

Suddenly, Uncle Vernon's watch sounded.  "Well, I best be off," he grumbled thickly as he lifted his heavy body from the table.

Harry took this as an opportunity to inconspicuously make his way back up to his room; he still wasn't comfortable with the idea of Malfoy roaming around in it by himself.  He followed his Aunt and Uncle into the entryway and then quickly made a break for the stairs.

"Have a nice day, love," said Aunt Petunia, kissing her husband on the cheek and walking him to the door.  "Don't forget your umbrella.  It still looks pretty bad out there."

"Just a light sprinkle, Petunia," Uncle Vernon reassured.  "Hey Dudders," he called to Dudley from the entryway, "care to see your old man off to work?"

"Bye," they heard him mutter from the kitchen, no doubt with his eyes still glued to the television screen.

"Teenagers," Uncle Vernon chuckled good-naturedly to his wife as he opened the front door.  "And you," he turned on Harry, his expression immediately going sour.  Harry cringed internally, having almost made it up the stairs.  "I mean it," Uncle Vernon snarled, "any more nonsense, and you and that ruddy owl of yours can find some other family to burden and inconvenience!"

"Her name is Hed – "

SLAM

Harry rolled his eyes, and then continued up the stairs.  "Git," he muttered under his breath.

Despite the early morning reprimand, though, Harry was surprised at how relatively easy and quick the whole altercation had gone, all things considered.  Normally, he'd be in the kitchen for hours while Uncle Vernon hemmed and hawed about how much of a burden he was.  Harry suspected even his Uncle was growing a bit tired of the monotony of it all.  That wasn't to say everything at Privet Drive had remained the same though.  Although the Dursleys still reminded Harry on a fairly regular basis of how ungrateful and unwelcome he was, they no longer treated him like a slave.  Harry had made it abundantly clear upon his return that he wasn't going to be pushed around any longer.  You don't kill a giant basilisk, outsmart a Hungarian Horntail, or escape the clutches of a power-hungry psychopath without learning how to stick up for yourself in the process.  He really couldn't care less anymore about the incessant tirades, for he had become well accustomed to tuning them out over the years – but he refused to be bullied into manual labor anymore.  He was more than willing to stay out of the way as long as he was left alone, and overall, it was an unspoken understanding that seemed to suit the Dursleys just fine.

Harry approached his bedroom door and opened it tentatively, peeking inside.  His room was empty, and for a brief moment he thought maybe Draco had left.

"Malfoy?" he whispered, sliding inside the room and quickly shutting the door behind him.  "Psst, Malfoy?"

"What took you so long?" came Draco's voice from behind him.

Startled, Harry jumped and whirled around with his fists raised in the air; Draco recoiled in reaction, his hands immediately going up to shield himself.

"Jesus, Malfoy!" Harry gasped angrily, lowering his fists and taking in deep breaths.  "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"What is your problem, Potter?" Draco snapped, also breathing hard and lowering his hands.  "Who's sneaking up on whom here?  You know it might help next time to check _behind the door when you come in!"_

"Shh!" Harry shushed him, suddenly becoming aware of how loud they were being.  "Keep your voice down," he now said in low tone, keeping in mind what Dudley had said at breakfast.

"Why?" Draco asked confusedly, looking around the room as if expecting to see Rita Skeeter with her acid-green quill in hand.  "This is your room, is it not?"  Harry nodded grudgingly.  "So why do we have to be so quiet?"

Harry chose to ignore Draco's questions; he really wasn't in the mood right now to explain his sorted past with the Dursleys.  Instead, he reached into his pocket and took out the wrapped napkin.  "Here," he said dully, handing it to Draco.

Draco looked it over in his hand uncertainly.  "What's this?"

"You're breakfast," Harry replied shortly.

He unfolded the napkin.  "Is this all?" Draco asked incredulously, looking disgruntled.  "But where are the waffles…and the jam…and the orange juice?"

Harry sighed.  "What do you think this is – some posh hotel?"

"Alright, Potter, enough with the charade," Draco said shrewdly, giving Harry a knowing look as if he were holding something out on him.  "You can't fool me; I know you're loaded.  So where are you keeping all the servants and valets, eh?  You must have tons of them.  What's more," he gestured around the small room, "this can't possibly be your _actual room.  I have closets bigger than this at home."_

"Sorry to disappoint you, Malfoy, but you aren't going to find any house elves or butlers here to do your bidding," said Harry coolly.  "And if you want to stay here, you might want to learn to keep your voice down from now on.  The Dursleys don't pay kindly to strangers."

"This is _absurd," Draco pouted indignantly, throwing the napkin to the floor.  "I refuse to eat something that's been stuffed down your trousers!"  
  
_

"Fine," Harry shrugged, picking up the food and tossing it into his wastebasket.  "Starve then."

"I bet you'd like that wouldn't you, Potter?" Draco sneered silkily.  "Don't think I can't see what you're doing.  You're probably having a hearty laugh right about now, aren't you – hiding me in this tiny room, giving me table scraps to eat, and making me wear this…this—" Draco rolled up Dudley's elongated sleeves, which kept falling down past his hands "—this _thing!" he finished with a frustrated groan._

"Don't be so melodramatic," Harry said carelessly.  "Believe me, having to put up with your pampered and inflated ego is not my idea of a hearty laugh."  Walking over to his desk, Harry picked up one of Mrs. Weasley's mince pies, which was already nicely cut into equal slices.  "Here."  He shoved it at Draco.  "You can have the rest of this then."

Draco took it hesitantly.  "What is it?"

"A Quaffle," Harry shot sardonically.  "It's a pie, moron, what does it look like?"

Draco leered back as he rotated the pie in his hands, examining it.  "Seems edible enough," he said reluctantly.  He looked expectantly at Harry for a moment, before giving him a prompting, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, where's the silverware?"

"Where's what?"

Draco rolled his eyes.  "You know," he explained in a slow, patronizing voice, as if Harry were a small child, "those shiny little tools we use to eat our food, also sometimes referred to as forks and knifes."

"Stop being a smartarse, Malfoy, and just use your hands."

"My what?"

Now it was Harry's turn to roll his eyes.  "For heaven's sake – watch," he demonstrated, gently easing a slice out of the tin pan with his hand and holding it out for Draco.  "See, nothing to it."

Draco stood slightly open-mouthed, eyeing Harry with a look of shock and repulsion, as if he were a savage who had just killed his prey in front of him.  "That's disgusting."

"You've got to be kidding, right?  Haven't you ever eaten something with your bare hands before?"

"Oh course not," Draco automatically replied, looking affronted.  "What do you take me for, some kind of animal?"

The dry question inadvertently triggered Harry's memory, and suddenly he felt a small grin playing on the edge of his lips as the endearing image of – as Ron coined it – "Malfoy: the amazing bouncing ferret" graced his mind's eye.

"Think something's funny?" Draco demanded angrily, and when Harry began to chuckle quietly, he spat, "Answer me, you!"

Harry dropped his grin at the familiar bite of Draco's tone.  "As a matter of fact, I do," he said frankly, now quite serious.  "I think _you're funny, Malfoy – you're so spoiled you can't even eat a piece of pie with your hands.  Hell, I bet you even get your mum to cut up your food, don't you?"_

Draco smirked.  "At least I have a mum," he drawled nastily.

In an instant, a hot rush of anger swept over Harry at the mention of his mother, and before he knew what he was doing, he threw an impulsive punch at Malfoy, making direct contact with Draco's right eye.  Draco, caught off guard, fell hard to floor, the pie in his hands making a clanking noise as its tin pan hit the ground.

There was a long, stilled silence as both boys stared bewilderedly at one another, each apparently too stunned to respond right away.  Harry finally took in a shaky breath and exhaled slowly, not exactly sure how to react.  Over the years, although he and Draco had both cast their fair share of hexes on each other, this was the first time Harry could remember ever _physically hitting Draco – though it certainly wasn't the first time he had ever __wanted to.  Despite that, however, he still couldn't help feeling somewhat unnerved at his sudden impetuosity._

"You hit me," Draco said in a staggering voice.  He touched his eye delicately, which was already beginning to swell.  "You hit me," he repeated in disbelief.  "I can't believe you just did that."

"I…" Harry tried to speak, but words utterly failed him in that moment as he tried to reconcile the mixed emotions of shock, satisfaction, and what seemed to be – _remorse?__ –coursing through him._

"You bloody _hit me!"_

"And…and I'll do it again the next time you mention my parents," Harry now said firmly, finally managing to wrap his tongue around some words as his initial shock began to ebb away.

Draco scrambled to his feet now, the broken pie lay forgotten on the floor.  "Why you little bastard," he gasped, and before Harry had time to react, Draco lunged at him, tackling him to the ground, the remaining slice of mince pie flying out of Harry's hand.

Both boys noisily rolled and tumbled across the floor in a tangle of limbs and fists, any lingering remorse on Harry's part having totally dissipated by now.  They each swung freely, neither caring about anything except inflicting pain on the other.  It was as if all those years of hatred and resentment for each other had finally reached its breaking point.  This time there were no wands, no magic, and no oversized bodyguards – just an outpouring of raw aggression.  Draco managed to get in a decent punch of his own, hitting Harry square in his stomach and knocking the wind out of him.  "I'll teach you to hit me!"  They continued to wrestle fiercely in an exchange of blows, all sense of propriety having gone completely out the window.  And then, they heard it…

"What in bloody hell is going on up there?"  Aunt Petunia's high-pitched voice came from downstairs.

They both immediately froze and listened intently, only the sound of their heavy respiring cutting into the silence.  Then, all of a sudden, they heard the sounds of heavy stomping along the stairs, each one producing a loud tremor throughout the house as it drew nearer.

"Now you've done it!" Harry wheezed at Draco, recognizing the tremor inducing steps immediately.  "Gerroff – it's my cousin."  He hastily untangled himself from Draco as both boys scrambled to their feet.  "Quick, the closet!"

"Dream on, Potter!" Draco spat defiantly.  "You must be off your rocker if you think I'm going back in _there.  Besides," he added, folding his arms in front of his chest and shooting Harry a glare of suspicion, "why are you so set on keeping me hidden from your muggle relatives?"_

"There's no time to explain, Malfoy!"

And indeed there wasn't, because just then Harry saw, as though in slow motion, his doorknob begin to turn.  Without thinking, Harry threw out his arm, grabbing Draco by his collar and forcing him under the bed – the only other place in the room closest enough to hide.

"What are you doing?"

"Just stay down and keep _quiet!" Harry hissed._

At that moment the door flew open, and in waddled his portly cousin, Dudley.  Having taken one glance at his cousin upon returning to Privet Drive, Harry immediately discerned that last summer's diet regimen must've had absolutely no affect on Dudley's weight whatsoever.  It wasn't long before he learned that, instead of exercising some actual discipline, his Aunt and Uncle had eventually – and characteristically – caved in under Dudley's tumultuous tantrums and went back to feeding him his usual assortments of fatty meats and junk food – the results of which had become painfully obvious since last year.  As a result, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were then forced to hire Dudley his own private tailor to custom make his Smeltings knickerbockers, as the school no longer supplied ones big enough to fit their overweight son.

In fact, Dudley was becoming so morbidly obese that teasing him about his weight was no longer as appealing to Harry as it once was.  Normally, it had been an unwavering source of cheap amusement for him over the years, as it was the only retaliation he could exploit against his bullying cousin – however, after seeing Dudley's now _gargantuan proportions, Harry just couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him.  There were hardly any curves or angles left on his body, which, consequently, was looking more and more like a giant beach ball every day.  Any semblance of wrists, ankles, or a neck was now completely concealed beneath Dudley's many chins of fat.  That, coupled with a raw case of pubertal acne, and it was almost impossible __not to feel sorry for him._

"This better be good," Dudley said in between rasping wheezes, apparently winded from his climb.  "I'm in the middle of watching The Great Humberto."

"So good of you to knock," Harry greeted his cousin acidly, pretending to stretch his back as he straightened up off the floor.

"Why should I?" Dudley asked with a mean scowl. "Don't forget this is still _my room," he snidely reminded._

Harry sighed impatiently.  "What do you want?"

"Mum seems to think you're up to no good, so she sent _me to check on you," explained Dudley in a self-important sort of way.  "So whatever freakish stuff you've got going on up here, knock it off so I can get back to the telly."  He shook his pudgy fist threateningly._

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Dudley snorted with laughter, sounding a little bit too much like a pig for comfort.  "Come off it – you might be able to fool mum and dad, but I know I heard you talking to someone this morning.  You've been acting really weird all summer – even weirder than usual.  What are you up to this time, anyway?  Calling upon ghosts now, are you?"

Harry shook his head.  "You're losing it," he deadpanned.  "I think the radiation from the telly has finally succeeded in dissolving what's left of your brain."

"Oh yeah?" Dudley challenged skeptically, his beady blue eyes quickly darting to the broken pie on the floor.  "Hey, what's that?" he jerked his round head at it.

"It's a pie," Harry sighed gallingly, starting to wonder whether he was the only one on the planet who knew a mince pie when he saw one.  "You of all people should know that," he added with an inner chuckle.

"I know what it is, stupid!  Where'd you get it?"

"That's none of your business."

"I'm sure Mum and Dad would like to know," Dudley sang in a conniving manner.  "You know you're not supposed to let that bird out of its cage.  You're in for it if they find out you've been letting it outside to deliver things."

"Does it look like I care?"

Dudley blinked dumbly.  "W-well, you should," he stammered, slightly thrown off by Harry's indifferent response.  Just like with Uncle Vernon, Harry no longer took Dudley's petty threats seriously, though unfortunately it did nothing to stop him from making them whenever he had the chance.  His eyes quickly searched the room for a more damaging piece of incriminating evidence.  They settled on the bed.  "Whose are those?"

Harry felt his muscles clench as his eyes fell on the wet clothes Draco had previously discarded on his bed, internally cursing himself for having forgotten about them.  "They're mine," he lied.

"I've never seen you wear that before," Dudley disputed, waddling over to the other side of the bed and picking them up.  "Pretty fancy material too for someone like you, isn't it?"

Harry shrugged nonchalantly.  "It's from school," he said.  "I only wear it at school."

"Then how come it's all wet and wrinkled?"

"Because…because I just washed it, that's why."

"Suuure?" Dudley said slowly, narrowing his eyes at Harry.  Clearly unconvinced, and without warning, he heaved his massive bottom on top of the bed, causing the middle section to sink heavily under his weight, while he searched the pockets of the robes.

At once, Harry felt Draco's hand shoot out from under the bed, grasping wildly at his trouser leg in an obvious plea for help.  Harry's heart raced.  He shook his leg free and, after making sure Dudley hadn't seen anything, racked his brain for a way to get him off his bed.  If he didn't find one fast, he would likely end up having to _peel Draco off his floor._

"Get off the bed!" Harry blurted out, but Dudley wasn't listening as he continued inspecting the robes.  "Hey, tubby!" he said louder, resorting to name-calling as the best solution.  "I said get off the bed!"

"Why do you have _teeth in your clothes?" asked Dudley, as if he was hearing Harry now for the first time._

"What?"

Dudley held out his pudgy hand, in his palm lay what looked to be a pair of human teeth.  The conniving expression on Dudley's face had been wiped clean, and he was now staring at Harry with that familiar look of fear and terror, the one he normally wore whenever the "M" word came up.

"W-what are you learning at that f-freak p-place?" he said shakily, now looking as if he deeply regretted ever stepping foot into Harry's room.

Harry decided to take advantage of this common scenario.  He hadn't exploited Dudley's intense fear of magic in quite sometime, but he knew if there was ever a time to do so, this was it.

He sighed exaggeratingly.  "Alright, alright – you got me," he conceded, shaking his head in mock-defeat.  "Caught me red handed."

Dudley slowly slid off the bed, causing Harry to breathe an inward sigh of relief.  His cousin's eyes were now fixated on the door, the desire to tear out of the room etched all over his chubby face.

"You're too smart for me, Dudley," Harry began, a slight gleam of mischief in his eyes.  He inched closer to his cousin.

"I-I am?" Dudley whimpered, backing away from Harry with tiny steps.

"Oh yes," he whispered for dramatic effect.  He then dropped his voice barely above that whisper and said, "You were right; I have been calling upon ghosts."

Dudley's beady eyes grew the size of saucers.  "MUUUUUUU—"

"Shhhh!"  Harry clamped his hand over Dudley's mouth.  "They don't like it when you scream for help," he said in undertone.

Dudley's bottom lip was now trembling with utter terror.  "T-t-they?"

Harry nodded gravely.  "Those teeth and clothes belong to a particular ghost I've been trying to call all summer," he explained.  "It's an important project for school, and I had just made contact with him when you came barging in."

Harry was happy to hear a distinct gulp emanate from his cousin.

"He wasn't pleased," he continued, making his voice sound grim for good measure.  "Because of you he didn't get his teeth back."

Dudley looked down at his hand and squeaked with horror, realizing he was still holding onto them.  "H-here!" he blubbered, shoving them back at Harry like they were a ticking time bomb.  "Take them, take them!"

"It's too late." Harry shrugged hopelessly.  "You've already upset him – made him throw things, you did," he pointed to the floor, "like that pie, for instance."  Dudley squeaked again as his eyes followed, causing Harry to stifle a chuckle; he had forgotten how much fun this could be.  "And once you upset a ghost," he went on, "they haunt you…_forever."_

"Y-you're lying," said Dudley, though he didn't look at all confident in his assertion.  "There's no such thing as ghosts.  I'm going to tell dad you're just trying to scare me and then he'll kick you out for good."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," warned Harry, leaning in closer as if someone else were listening in on their conversation.  "Ghosts don't like it when you reveal their presence – makes them very angry.  And believe me you don't want to make this one any angrier than he already is at you.  He might even invade your body if you do."  Hearing his own words, Harry tried desperately not to crack a smile at the absurdity of what he was saying.  The mere thought of Moaning Myrtle invading people's bodies was almost too comical to bear.  "Still, if you want to risk it," he whispered, "go right ahead and tell your father – I'm sure he'll miss you very much."

Dudley sniveled, completely beside himself.

Then, inspired with a sudden idea, he added, "However, there is one thing you could do to protect yourself."

"What?  What is it?" Dudley pleaded.

"Vegetables."

"Vegetables?"

"Yep – vegetables," said Harry, who figured he might as well derive some good from this silly fabrication.  "Ghosts _hate vegetables – it's their ultimate weakness, like garlic is to vampires.  They won't go anywhere near them.  So, I'm sure if you eat plenty of vegetables, the ghost won't invade your body."  Surely he wasn't going to buy this hogwash, was he?_

"What kind of vegetables?" Dudley asked hesitantly.

"All kinds: Broccoli, celery, cauliflower—"

"But I hate those!" he whined.

Harry shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  Just telling you what I know.  I can only lead you to the water, Dudley; I can't make you drink it."

"Water?"  Dudley furrowed his hefty brow in confusion.  "But…I'm not thirsty."

"Nevermind," sighed Harry.  "Point is – it's your choice.  Just don't come crying to me when your arms and legs start to take on a life of their own."

There was a moment of silence as Harry watched Dudley mull this dilemma over in his head.  He couldn't believe that, even with the threat of being possessed, his cousin still had to stop and _think about eating his vegetables, as if it were a life-altering decision.  Thankfully, their silence didn't last very long.  The faint ring of the telephone sounded from downstairs, and after a brief minute, they heard Aunt Petunia's voice. _

"Oh, Duddikins," she called from below.  "Telephone, dear – it's Piers."

Dudley's face immediately flooded with relief.  "Coming!" he hollered back, looking immensely grateful for the distraction and wanting nothing more than to get out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Oh, Dudley," Harry beckoned just as Dudley opened the door to leave.  "Think about it," he mouthed wordlessly, tapping his right temple lightly.

Again, Dudley's eyes grew wide with fear, and with a final squeak, he turned on his heel and shut the door behind him.  Harry let out a genuine sigh of relief this time, then quickly dashed over to his bed.

"Are you dead?" he asked, kneeling down beside it.

There was a slight pause.  "No," eventually came Draco's hoarse reply from underneath.  "But I think I've been rendered unconscious."

Harry chuckled.  "Just be happy he didn't crush you completely," he said.

"I'd be happy if you'd stop jabbering on like a git and help me up?" barked Draco.

Harry shrugged.  He grabbed a hold of Draco's forearms and pulled him forward out from under his bed.

"That's the last time I ever let you hide me again, Potter," Draco complained, standing up and brushing himself off.  "I saw my whole life flash before my eyes under there."

"It was a close call, but I don't think we'll have to worry about him prying anymore."

"Yeah, I heard.  _Ghosts, Potter?  What were you thinking?  Even Crabbe could have done better than that story."_

"Hey," Harry protested.  "It's thanks to that story that you're not currently out on your arse right now."

"That, and the fact that your cousin has the combined IQ of a raisin," Draco readily injected.  "What gives anyway, Potter?  I keep getting this odd impression that your family doesn't like you very much."

"Gee, you're pretty swift, aren't you?" Harry commented dryly.  "Anyway, what do you care?"

"I don't, since you ask," Draco responded without missing a beat.  "Although I suppose it does make sense."  He cupped his chin thoughtfully.  "What other reason could you have for wanting to spend Christmas at the castle every year?"

"Can we forget about my relatives, Malfoy?" Harry cut in as he held out his hand. "What I want to know is whose teeth these are?"

Draco grinned naively.  "Would you believe me if I said they were mine?"

"Try again," Harry said flatly.  "I thought you said you didn't have to pull any teeth to find out where I live."

"I didn't, you idiot.  If you must know, I needed the teeth to make the Polyjuice potion."

"What do you mean?  Couldn't you have just used hair?"

"Not when the person you want to change into is as bald as a melon," said Draco.  "Our head gardener, Morton, is the only person at Malfoy manor whose body size is relatively the same as mine."

"So?"

"So," Draco drawled, "that means we wear the same sized clothing.  Are you following me here, Potter?"  Harry shot him a glare.  "Good.  Anyway, the old geezer's toothless as well, but lucky for me he saved each and every one of them inside a small tin cup atop his dresser.  Don't ask me why," he quickly added in response to the appalled look Harry gave him.  "Maybe he wants them as a keepsake, but whatever the reason, they proved most useful."

"You can use teeth for the potion?" Harry asked, almost shuddering at the mere thought of it.

"The book does say a 'bit' of whoever you want to change into.  It doesn't specify hair."

"But…it's teeth, Malfoy – _old teeth!"_

Draco frowned.  "Thank you for that much needed insight."  All of a sudden, he grimaced and touched his bruised eye, looking like he had apparently forgotten about it, only to be reminded again by the abrupt pang his facial movement must have caused.

Harry shifted a bit uncomfortably.  "You might want to put some ice on that," he offered timidly.

"You've done quite enough already," Draco snapped.

"Hey, don't forget you deserved it!" Harry shot back, though he still couldn't shake the guilt off completely, much to his chagrin.

"You're just lucky that ogre walked in when he did," Draco muttered, still massaging his eye.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you knocked the wind out of me pretty good," Harry admitted, rubbing his sore abdomen.

He knew he had wounded Draco's pride more than the eye itself, simply by the way Draco wasn't looking at him.  Though _why he was able to make such an astute observation was completely beyond him, and, deciding he didn't want to examine it too closely, Harry opted to change the subject._

"Do you like cake?"

Draco slowly lifted his eyes.  "Excuse me?"

"I have some left-over Birthday cake if you want some."

"Why – so you can have another crack at me when my defenses are down?" Draco rejoined bitterly.

"Not unless you piss me off," Harry bluntly retorted, steadily losing his patience.  "Now you want some or not?"

Draco considered him for a brief moment before giving a succinct, "What kind?"

"Er…Chocolate."

Draco pulled a face.  "I suppose it'll do," he sighed listlessly.

Harry pointed to his desk.  "It's over there," he stated, choosing to ignore Draco's sigh as he started to clean up the bits and pieces of Mrs. Weasley's mince pie off his floor.  Luckily most of it remained in the pan when it hit.  Tossing the pie into the wastebasket, Harry dubiously shook his head, realizing that Draco had been here for only a few hours and already they had resorted to blows – he thought it would've taken only a few minutes for that to happen.

"Dear Harry," Harry suddenly heard Draco recite from behind him, "Happy 15th, mate!" he unflatteringly affected Ron's voice.  "Yeah, I know, where did the time g—"

Harry whirled around.  "The cake is over _there_," he pointed irritably, snatching Ron's card away.  "What part of 'don't touch anything' didn't you understand?"

Draco smirked, evidently satisfied for getting a rise out of him.  "Someone should tell Weasley his handwriting's a joke," he cracked offhandedly.  "How that dummy ever managed to make it past the fourth year I'll never know."

Harry gave a snort of incredulous laughter.  "This coming from someone who considers Crabbe and Goyle his friends," he said pointedly.  "Talk about dummies."

"Touché, Potter," Draco conceded without rancor.  Harry lifted a questioning eyebrow to this, to which Draco responded matter-of-factly, "Hey, no point in pretending otherwise with those two."

"Well then, shut up about Ron already," Harry said hotly, the slight against his best friend irritating him to no end.  "You don't know the first thing about him or any of my other friends – and for your information, Malfoy, not only is Ron incredibly smart and a brilliant chess player, but he's also the best mate anyone could ever ask for.  You only _wish_ you knew what it was like to have friends as cool as him."  He sucked in a breath, having wheeled all this off in a rush of anger.  Harry calmed slightly, annoyed with himself for letting Malfoy's petty insults get to him.  He wasn't worth it.  "But I suppose I can't expect someone like you to ever understand something like that," he finished calmly.

"Like what?"  Draco scowled.

"Like friendship," Harry said shortly.  "I bet you've never had a friend in your life that you weren't using in some way to suit your own gains.  Everyone knows you only use Crabbe and Goyle to hide behind whenever you can't back up your big mouth."

Draco let out a chuckle, though it was a hallow one.  "Well – that just goes to show that you don't know the first thing about _me_ or _my_ friends."

"Oh well," Harry intoned exaggeratingly, "please enlighten me then."

"What's the point?"  Draco shrugged impassively.  "You and the rest of that bloody school have already made up your minds about me and my house.  You all think that we're just a bunch of scheming little bastards who have nothing better to do than to rain on your parade."  He held up an unsympathetic hand.  "Save me the lecture, Potter; you're no different from me."

"That's not true," Harry said at once.

"Oh, isn't it?" Draco challenged, starting to become heated.  "Name me one Slytherin you've actually taken the time to get to know – just one."

Deafened silence followed the dare and, knowing that he couldn't name one, Harry grudgingly broke eye contact and looked to his right.

"I figured as much," Draco concluded loftily, his tone icy.  "You think you're so noble, but you're just like the rest of us – you see only what you want to see."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but no words seemed to want to come out.  He was fuming.  He wanted to tell Malfoy that _he_ _was_ a scheming little bastard who constantly tried to rain on his parade, and that they couldn't be more different from each other.  He wanted to list every single example of how they differed and how Draco purposely went out of his way just to make his life miserable: the endless taunting of him and his friends, the cheating tactics he used in Quidditch, trying to get Hagrid fired and Buckbeak executed in their third year, not to mention his disrespect for Cedric's memory that day on the Hogwarts Express, just to name a few.  Revisiting these memories, Harry clenched his fists, feeling an unmistakable urge to slung Malfoy once again for having the nerve to stand there and say he was no different from him.  He was _nothing_ like him.

"Let's get one thing straight, Malfoy," Harry said evenly, stepping closer until he was only mere inches from Draco's face.  "I'm not like you in any way, shape, or form.  I don't look like you, I don't act like you, and I certainly don't _think_ like you – got it?"

Both boys stared menacingly at each other for what seemed like awhile; then, shrugging unceremoniously, Draco said breezily, "Believe –," he paused and smirked, "—or _see_ – what you want, Potter."  He let out a halfhearted sigh, and just like that, returned to his impassive demeanor.  "I think I'm ready for that cake now," he declared almost cheerfully.

He rolled up a dangling sleeve and stretched out his arm toward the cake, gingerly inching out a slice with his bare hand, all the while never breaking his eye contact with Harry.  "You were right," he concurred, his smirk elongating as he took a large bite, "nothing to it."

Harry watched Draco chew smugly while he, in turn, swallowed hard in an attempt to push down the upsurge of disdain he felt climbing at the bottom of his gut.  _It's only one week.  Just one measly week_, Harry chanted over and over in his head.  _Remember the plan.  Bide your time.  Get the information necessary and then you'll be done with him._  Feeling himself calm, Harry turned his head without a word and looked out his dripping windowpane, staring absently at the gray abyss on the other side.

The downpour of rain had eased up slightly as Harry could see ruffling waves of drizzle now descending from the sky, though the clouds showed no signs of parting anytime soon.

"This is some decent birthday cake you've got here, Potter," Draco spoke up as he finished it off with an aggressive bite.  "My compliments to the chef."

Harry glanced sideways.  He couldn't resist.  "Thanks, I'll be sure to pass it on to Mrs. _Weasley_," he articulated her name with a grin.

Draco stopped in mid-chew, giving the piece of cake in his hand a lot more attention than he had only moments before.  He scowled.  "Pity it's chocolate," he backpedaled.

Harry shook his head.  "You're a wanker, you know that, Malfoy?"

"Takes one to know one, Potter," Draco sneered.  "But now that we understand each other," he continued unfazed, "I'd like to know what room I'll be sleeping in during my stay."

"What are you talking about?"  Harry turned and gestured to his room.  "Here – where else?"

Draco groaned abhorrently.  "I was afraid you'd say that.  Very well," he sighed in a deflated tone, "but where are you going to sleep?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Draco drawled patronizingly.  "I see there are two of us and only one bed.  You do the math genius."

"_I'll_ be sleeping on _my_ bed, thank you very much," Harry elucidated in annoyance. "There's a sleeping bag in the closet."  He nodded absently in its direction.  "Never been used – you can sleep on the floor with that."

Fortunately for Harry, his closet was littered with Dudley's old, but never-before-used camping gear.  Just like the racing bike his cousin received when he was eleven, it was still a mystery to Harry why his aunt and uncle wasted money on items that involved or required physical activity.  The only physical exertion Dudley had ever exhibited was lifting up his fort to shovel food into his mouth.  Nonetheless, it was a good thing they'd forgotten to clean it out when Harry moved in.  The flashlight came in pretty handy during those secretive, late-night homework sessions in his room.

"I'm not sleeping on the floor," Draco flatly refused.

Harry took off his glasses and sighed edgily, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  He felt like he was dealing with a three-year-old.  "You don't have much of a choice, Malfoy," he said through gritted teeth.  "You're in no position to be making demands here."

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to think better of it when he caught the daggers Harry was shooting him.  "You – you better not snore, Potter," he huffed instead, "because I need at least eight hours of sleep."

Sleep.  Harry couldn't remember the last time he had had a decent night's sleep.  The mere notion of such a thing seemed so foreign to him now, it almost made him laugh.  And the fact that Draco was demanding it only fueled his resentment toward him.  Maybe it was due to the lack of sleep, but Harry hadn't realized until then that he was still in his pajamas and that it was nearly approaching noon.  He walked passed Draco silently as if he didn't exist and to his dresser, taking from it a T-shirt and a pair of khaki trousers – one of the few muggle outfits he owned that actually fit him.  Setting the clothes on the bed, he tugged at the collar of his top and began to lift it up over his head.

Draco quickly turned away.  "What are you doing?" he blurted out.

Harry finished the lifting motion and was now standing in front of Draco bare-chested.  "Changing," he answered curtly, not giving it a second thought.  "What does it look like?"

His back to him, Harry heard Draco distinctively clear his throat.  "Do you have to do that right _now_?"

Harry looked down at himself and then stared confoundedly at the back of Draco's blond head.  "Why the hell not?" he wondered aloud, remembering the many times he had changed in front of Ron or in the Quidditch locker rooms and not thought twice about it.  "You got a problem with people changing clothes or something?"

"Of course not," Draco snorted derisively, though Harry could have sworn he detected a hint of unsteadiness in it.  "Just hurry up and finish your business, will you – I wouldn't want to go blind seeing your disgusting body on display."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said reflexively, now pulling the T-shirt down over his head, feeling his hair stick up in all directions.  He then kicked off his pajamas bottoms and stepped easily into his trousers, all the while with Draco's back to him.  "You can turn around now," he said, pulling up his zipper and rolling his eyes.  "Your eyesight is safe."

Draco turned around and looked him up and down.  "How come you get to wear fitting clothes while I'm stuck wearing this abomination?" he groused, flapping his dangling sleeves.  Harry fought hard not to laugh.  He definitely had to get a picture of this before the week was up.  Ron would never forgive him if he didn't.

"Because," he coughed through a mild guffaw, "I'd be forced to burn them afterward, you being evil and everything."  His hatred for Malfoy aside, though, Harry knew he'd be lying to if he said he wasn't finding any of this slightly amusing.  There was no doubt he had the upper hand here, and truthfully, he couldn't deny reveling in it somewhat.  _Serves him right after all he's done_, Harry said to himself.

"By the way," something suddenly occurred to him, "why didn't you bring any spare clothing of your own?  I mean what kind of idiot runs away from home without at least packing some extra clothes."  Harry had imagined running away from the Dursleys enough times to know that much.

"I didn't exactly have the time to put together a wardrobe," Draco told him defensively.  He gave a bitter laugh.  "You tend to forget those things after…" he stopped himself, and for a split second his gray eyes flashed darkly, in a way Harry had never seen before.

"What?" Harry asked hopefully, sensing an opportunity, but trying hard to keep his voice even.  "After what?"

"Nothing," Draco said tightly.  "Forget it."

"No, what?" Harry pressed, not willing to let the opportunity get away from him quite yet.  "What happened?"

"I said forget it!"  Draco's voice was hard and flat, and Harry knew it was useless to try and pry any further.  "Anyway," Draco spoke after awhile, his smirk returned, "what do _you_ care?"

Harry groaned internally, suddenly feeling incredibly frustrated and angry, not to mention strangely manipulated.  He was convinced Draco was hiding something – something important.  His story was vague at best, and Harry didn't believe for a second that Draco had run away simply because of personal problems.  What possible reason could he have for wanting to flee his life of lap and luxury?  It just didn't make any sense.  And even though Harry knew he still had the whole week to pump Draco for information, it still did very little to ease his anxiety, knowing that Draco possessed what could potentially be invaluable information about Voldemort's upcoming plans.  But most of all, Harry couldn't help but feel that the longer he waited out Draco's silence, the more time he gave Voldemort to devise a plan of attack.  The longer he waited, the more danger he was in; the longer he waited, the more danger his _friends_ were in.  Harry shut his eyes and mentally pushed the thought away, not wanting to think of Ron and Hermione that way.  It made his chest ache.  _Just be patient_, he told himself.  _Just.  Be.  Patient._

"So what did you wish for your Birthday, Potter?" Draco's question snapped Harry from his reverie.  "A proper family, perhaps?"

Harry changed his mind.  He was no longer worried about having to wait out Draco's silence – no, he was pretty sure he'd end up strangling the dirty little bugger to death before he got the chance.


End file.
